So Quite New a Thing
by Silverr
Summary: Afterwards, the work of repair.


Nimona is copyright by Noelle Stevenson and Harper Collings. No infringement of existing copyright is intended by this work of fanfiction.

_._

.

* * *

**So Quite New a Thing**  
_by silverr_

* * *

.

.

He had known that his old villain lair was too oppressively cave-like for his new role — apparently he was considered a champion now? Champion Blackheart? The title made him feel subtly fraudulent every time he heard it, as though he was lurking inside a too-large suit of armor made for someone else, but even if the cave had been a suitable abode for a champion, it was far too far from the city to be practical.

And so, after leaving a comprehensive document for the next tenant — whomever that might be, if and when they ever showed up — with instructions about which piles of rubble to manipulate to access the secret rooms, he had made his way to Meredith Blitzmeyer to ask if he could live on the top floor of the building she was renovating as a showroom for their research. Of course Meredith had been delighted to have him near at hand, and the kingdom's various pundits and news criers had approved as well, congratulating him on setting an example by putting down roots in the city.

He wondered how they would react if they knew that after half a year his only furnishings were an overstuffed chair, a handful of singed pages he had salvaged from the charred ruins of the Institute, and a single flask from his old subterranean laboratory. At times it occurred to him that perhaps he had gone from what some might think was one inadequate living space to another, but then again, his basic needs for shelter, warmth, food, and sleep were being met. The new lodging was drier, better lit, and had far less less gravel on the floor than the cave. He took meals in the city. He had placed the chair next to the fire, which was perfect for reading and eliminated the need for a lamp. As for higher concerns, if he was in a self-reflective mood and needed a reminder of his past, he had only to look at the flask, which slumped solitary and forlorn on the mantel, or the pages, pinned in an orderly parade along the wall with the least number of cracks.

He rarely needed a reminder.

Most mornings Ballister would rise just after dawn, scatter any lingering embers in the fireplace, and then quietly descend two floors to the laboratory. Fending off whatever questionable beverage or foodstuff Meredith offered him for breakfast — she had a habit of using lab equipment to cook her meals, and Ballister suspected she wasn't always scrupulous about washing out the remains of old experiments — they would first review the progress of the current experiments. After that, Ballister would read out the notes he'd taken the previous day, and together he and Meredith would prioritize the city's needs against the available work crews. Ballister would then update his notes, check the schedule to see which sector of the city was next to be evaluated, and then set out.

It had been decided by the citizenry to hold off rebuilding either the palace or the Institute. This was in part it because they wanted to see whether or not they could survive without them (they had), but also because they simply didn't have the resources for two such large structures when so many sectors of the city were still fallow with unoccupied and abandoned houses. Ballister agreed with this decision, but for selfish reasons. He wanted the residential areas of the city rebuilt as quickly as possible, because, although there were people on the streets again and some businesses had reopened, each tumbled wall, cracked foundation, and empty window that remained was yet another reminder that, although he had tried to save both the city and Nimona, he had saved neither. The weight of his failure pressed on him most strongly on stormy days, when the city slicked to gray-brown and shuttered itself against the rain. Ballister, pushing through his rounds despite the weather, was always struck by how much the rain made the city looked as it had in the first days after the disaster, broken and deserted. The sight always brought his feelings of grief and guilt to the surface, and he would stand in the street, imagining himself dissolving in the runoff.

And then the sun would shoulder through the clouds. Birds would resume tossing out songs, stray cats and tired citizens would emerge from hiding, and for a moment Ballister could believe that, despite all his bumbling, something precious and resilient had survived the destruction. Something that, as a champion, he should strive to protect and nurture.

After such moments — and depending on how often his route took him past someone who needed help lifting a fallen door or mending a broken chicken coop — Ballister would make his way by late afternoon to a certain cottage. Once hidden in the large forest between the edge of the city and the distant foothills, the cottage now stood next to half a forest and a large crater.

When he arrived Ballister would follow the path around the side of the cottage to a wooden door set in a vine-embroidered wall. The door opened into a small courtyard, where a one-eyed man with a scarred face and a crutch would be sitting on a bench, waiting.

Ballister would sit next to him, and after a moment they would lean against each other, reading or dozing or simply turning their faces up to the sun. From time to time Ambrosius might lift his arm slowly and point at a flash of pink, a bird or butterfly or a flower tossed above the top of the wall by the wind, turning his head to silently ask Could it be her? Is it her?

Ballister would shrug, trying to hide his disappointment: the flashes were always only ordinary birds or butterflies or flowers.

After a while they would go inside and prepare supper. On warm evenings they would eat in the courtyard, watching small animals scamper around in the dusk, but as the days had became colder, and the small animals were sensibly elsewhere, they more often stayed inside.

Ambrosius' injuries had made it difficult for him to produce anything louder than a faint, hoarse whisper, but he loved to hear Ballister talk about Meredith's latest inventions or the state of the city's repairs. On the rare occasion that he displayed frustration that he could not converse as easily as he used to, Ballister would reassure him by saying, "Words are overrated. They're as effective as trying to nail down smoke."

Ambrosius would smile and pinch out one of the candles.

It was true, though. The two of them had become accustomed to conversing in the language of small actions, an ongoing conversation that had allowed them to explore wounds and scars, to glean missed opportunities and kindnesses, and to coax out what had been buried deep.

One evening soon, when the moonlight through the window limns skin and metal alike with silver, Ballister will reflect that they have become each other's foundation and balm, each other's air and warmth and shelter. And he will decide that, although it is a new concept, adjusting to it has proved no hardship at all.

.

.

.

_~ The End ~_

.

.

.

Written for NYR 2019 and Trope Bingo. Inspired by the _Nimona_ epilogue.  
the title is from a poem by e.e. cummings.

.

_first post 2 Nov 2019_


End file.
